


Hardest of Hearts

by honeybadgerwrath



Series: Hardest of Hearts [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mild Blood, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybadgerwrath/pseuds/honeybadgerwrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps, had she been wise and listened to the advice Waverly had given her, she would have never asked for the file.</p><p>Sorta fill for a prompt at the <a href="http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=278656#cmt278656">Man From UNCLE kinkmeme</a>:</p><p>
  <i>Gaby's reaction to discovering the truth about her uncle Rudi and his history during the war, not to mention that he more recently tortured one of her partners. Does this kind of behaviour run in the family, she wonders? </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardest of Hearts

There was not, technically speaking, anything unusual in losing track of your fellow agent(s) in the off-hours between missions. Actually, it was more common than not when teams worked together that they would part ways to seek out their individual ways to blow off steam and not to spend all their hours together when they weren't absolutely required to.

That was, according to all either Illya or Solo had ever known. What it was not, however, was for that to actually prove true when it came to their particular (peculiar) partnership.

Illya was not, as he had informed the other man several times, worried. He was merely concerned as to the whereabouts of the third member of their team. It was not like Gaby to simply disappear, after all, and to be so foolish as to dismiss it as her needing some time to herself showed a marked lack of awareness as to the dangers of the life of a spy.

Solo had not needed a second moment to decide that his Russian friend partner was full of shit. He refrained from saying so aloud, of course, as catching a mouthful of the other man's knuckles was not on the agenda of the moment and he would really rather not test the limits of the KGB agent's patience when there were other matters to attend to. See, he felt like saying, he was indeed capable of biting his tongue when it was required. Not that pointing that fact out would have been the least bit in his interests, but still. The point stood.

That it was Waverly who solved the mystery of Gaby's disappearance was not in and of itself a surprise. What was was the warning the British officer had worn in his eyes when he had advised them to give her time and allow her to come to them when she was comfortable to do so. She had not, they knew, been injured on their last mission beyond the usual bumps and bruises agents were accustomed to, the spectacular bruising of her knuckles on the jaw of a man who had asked for more than the woman was willing to give aside, that was.

Still, Illya had not relented in his drive to see for himself that the little east German mechanic had not managed to hide a greater injury from either of them or had come to harm sometime in the twelve hours since they had seen her last, and Solo had oh so graciously agreed to go along for the ride. Not because he was the least concerned, of course, as their little mechanic was a woman entirely capable of looking after herself (as she had for years before either of them had come crashing into her life). No, not at all. He resented the implication, or would've had the Russian done more than glared at him for a moment before giving up on dissuading him and made no further complaint at his accompanying him to the location Waverly had given them as where their mutual friend partner had a room.

Obtaining a key to the room had been simply a matter of a bit of flirtation, a bit of distraction, and a slip of a hand to feel the jingle of key and the numbered placard as it fell into his hand. A fair little bit of thievery Solo did not feel was properly appreciated by the glowering Russian who snatched it out of his hand the moment the two of them were in the elevator on their way up to her floor. He might have pouted a touch at the snub if there hadn't been so reflective a surface in front of them but instead pulled at his jacket to straighten his appearance (as if he had become the least bit undone in so easy a caper) and rolled his eyes at the other man's lack of taste.

There were no guards, no roving patrols, no dogs on short leashes, and still there was something of a taste of the break in at the Vinciguerra factory to heading for the door to room 117. Why, neither of them could say, but proceeded manfully to not speak of it and instead move as one to extract weapons from their jackets at the feeling of unease that traveled between them in front of that door.

The source of that unease was not immediately apparent when Illya turned the key in the lock, but when the door opened with a push of his fingers against the wood, something dropped in his stomach like a rock as the scene was revealed to them.

The plush interior of the hotel room looked as if the Russian himself had already visited it in the worst of his moods, when the world had gone out of focus and bled red in the fury he could not altogether control. His heart beat sharp in his chest with the echo of that very mood as he led the way into the room, fingers tight on the grip of his gun as he took in the shattered mirror, the overturned chair, the destruction of the small bar nearest them. It lodged somewhere in his throat when he caught sight of the blood on the floor, gleaming bright on the edges of glass smashed and mixed with scotch and vodka on the polished wood of the floor.

Papers had been scattered like fallen leaves across the remains of a coffee table, photographs of black and white mixed into the lot and drawing Solo's hand down to retrieve one for inspection. He held it out to his partner after one too long moment and Illya felt the knot in his belly ease not the least in recognizing the too sharp image of horror on that page. The brutality contained in one innocent sheet was unspeakable, even with such training as he had had, and he dropped it as if the paper burnt his fingers.

The two men turned as one to look at each other, jaws tight and eyes hard. To share a significant look. To nod as they turned toward the sound of scuffing in the direction of the light falling from the hallway, then further on from the ajar door of what looked to be the bathroom.

Each step was considered. Each movement precise. They moved without the edge of antagonism or competition that filled every other moment between them but were instead focused on following the dull sounds to their origin. To follow the pathway of blood red steps in too familiar a shape for either of them to ignore their probable owner.

All to stop there in the doorway and stare into that marble and silver interior.

To see the small, crumpled form of a woman they knew so well in the furthest corner of the massive space. Feet bloodied and cut, she had apparently folded into herself to make as small a target as she could manage. The guns were dropped immediately to their sides, though Solo turned to be able to watch both bathroom and the rest of the suite for the possibility that the three of them were not alone. Illya rushed forward only to stop short of actually touching the shape of the woman before him, crouching down and reaching out to her after only a second's hesitation to check that she still drew breath. That her heart still beat.

His eyes were wide when she batted his hands away and opened her eyes with a blaze of what was anger, not fear or the haze of anything but what was born of the alcohol he could smell now that he was so close to her. “Gaby,” he began, voice strained and accent thick. “What-”

Her eyes closed but not into unconsciousness as he watched, her expression one he had never seen before on the delicate lines of her face. It was not fear. It was not resignation. It was...revulsion? Regret?

When they opened once more it was to stare up at him with a steadiness that belied the heavy smell of scotch and of smoke she wore like a perfume, sliding over his shoulder to focus on Solo who stood at attendance in the doorway a moment after. “How can you even look at me?” she asked, the words so altogether unexpected that it was Illya who blinked. “How can you stand it?”

“What exactly are you referring to, sweetheart?” Solo asked from his station, taking a step further into the room now that there seemed to be no immediate threat.

“I read the file.” She told him, her words hollow but certain as if they were all that needed to be said in explanation. When they failed to get the response she apparently wanted, she lifted her chin, and while still in the protective huddle of her position, appeared for a second as if she might take on the world with every expectation of winning. “Uncle Rudi,” she spat, as sure as a curse. “What he'd done. What he planned to do.” Her fingers stretched out, searching, for something beside her and was rewarded with the sound of glass against stone before she lifted her hand to show a glass that was, unfortunately (by the look of her expression), already emptied. “What he was."

She dropped the glass and, ignoring the clatter, shot them both a look that was sharp as it was too full of emotion for either of the men to interpret. “He would have torn you both apart and I would have been the one to invite him to do it.”

Illya looked back at the man behind him in a thoughtless attempt to find some clue as to how to proceed but found only the same tight expression he no doubt wore a shade of himself. He turned back to the ferocity of Gaby's glare and took in again the wild state of her hair and the bruise she wore on her jaw, the raw, red look of her eyes and, worst of all, the cuts he could see in only a quick glance at her hands and feet. “We do not blame you-”

She cut him off, clearly winding herself for a battle he was not of a mind to fight. “Why shouldn't you?” The words seemed meant to carry the fury she wore in her eyes but slipped so easily into something more broken as he reached out to her, moving oh so carefully to gather her up off that cold marble floor and pulling her in against his chest. He did not stand but sat himself down so he could hold her in his lap, mindful not to jostle her nor let her feet brush against the porcelain of the tub nearby.

“Because, Зайчик,” he told her, aware of the other man's eyes on his back. “You did what you must to survive.” When she opened her mouth to protest he shook his head and stilled her before she could say a word. “Neither Cowboy nor I can blame you for that.” His arms tightened around her to hold her more securely, for all that he did not try to restrain her and was still conscious of how small she seemed compared to himself. He was grateful for the American's silence, for all that he would not have admitted it to him on the pain of torture but instead turned his head to share a glance with the man. He did not wish to linger on the image of the man locked into that metal machine but instead shook his head and allowed his thumb to draw a slow arc back and forth against the skin at the inside of one of her wrists. “No good will come of lingering on such regrets. What matters is now. Not the past.”

Where he was uncertain whether she believed him or if it would be the last time the matter was raked over the coals of her mind, he breathed easier when she relaxed against him.

The three of them stayed there long into the night, no more words spoken into the understanding between them.


End file.
